The dawn crept slowly over the Suburana stronghold, casting soft golden light across rooftops still glistening with night dew. Smoke from morning hearths curled lazily skyward, and the air bore the faint chill of fading darkness. Rifi strode through the war hall's outer corridor, his cloak slung across one shoulder, his steps quiet but sure. His face was unreadable—calm, but alert.
Inside the strategy chamber, Selmak stood at the map table, one hand braced against its edge, the other gesturing subtly as he exchanged quiet words with several senior tacticians. Among them were Hastor and Tolga, their expressions stern beneath the glow of the mana-infused sconces that lit the room.
"Rifi," Selmak greeted without turning. "Perfect timing. We've nearly finalized the plan."
Rifi stepped closer, glancing down at the cluster of iron markers spread across the map. "Didn't expect things to move this quickly. Efficient as ever."
Selmak tapped one of the iron pins—a red-marked outpost nestled within a narrow western ridge. "I've had some help. And this," he said, voice low, "is where we're going to lose."
Rifi raised an eyebrow.
A murmur passed through the gathered tacticians. One of them, an older man with a braided beard and weathered armor, frowned deeply. "This is why you summoned me back with such urgency? Just to hand over Gorath's Hollow like a gift basket? That land's been held by my clan for generations, you can't be serious with this proposal."
Selmak didn't flinch. "We're not handing it over—not by any means. We make it look like it's slipping. We scale back our forces, pull out key defenses, and leave it appearing barely held together—desperate, not foolish. The Esquiliana will think it's ripe for the taking."
"And when they take it?" the old man growled.
Selmak met his eyes. "Then they expose themselves. That's when we strike."
The old man—Tomen of Clan Sergia—muttered something under his breath, but said no more.
"Your Sergia clan," Selmak said, gesturing toward the older man, "will withdraw the bulk of your legionaries from the outpost. Leave behind only a token force—just enough to stage a feeble defense. Let the enemy advance, let them believe they've overwhelmed us… let them expose the mana vein."
He paused, letting the words settle before continuing.
"Tomen, while the enemy commits to Gorath's Hollow, you'll be stationed far to the north with the Matriarch, staging a coordinated feint. A contingent of the City Lord's forces will join you to lend the illusion weight."
Selmak's gaze swept across the table before finally settling on Rifi. His tone grew more serious.
"The success of this operation rests on you and your team. Gorath's Hollow houses one of our more vital mana veins—mid-grade, but strategically positioned. If we fail to reclaim it quickly, the cost will be severe. There is no room for hesitation."
Tomen crossed his arms. "That's exactly why we shouldn't be risking it. There's too much at stake. Why not lure them somewhere less vital?"
"Because that's the point," Selmak said firmly. "The enemy won't chase after scraps. They'll commit where they believe we're weak and the reward is high. Gorath's Hollow fits both criteria—especially if we sell the illusion right."
The room was quiet for a moment, broken only by the soft clink of a pin as Selmak moved it across the table—marking a narrow canyon to the east of the outpost.
"This canyon here," Selmak said, pointing to a narrow stretch east of Gorath's Hollow, "will serve as your staging ground. Your team will lie in wait—concealed and silent—until the enemy force commits fully to the advance. Once they've breached the outpost, that's when you strike."
He moved his hand across the map with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Your objective will be precise: cut off their command structure. Target their officers and their backline, isolate them from their support, and when their formation falters—collapse onto their forces towards the outpost. Break their cohesion, send their ranks into disarray."
Selmak straightened, his tone sharpening.
"Once their momentum is broken, regroup with the remaining Segia forces and retake the outpost—swiftly, before they can regroup or reinforce. If we strike with precision, we won't just recover Gorath's Hollow—we'll wipe out a significant portion of their force's and cripple their ability to project power in the west region for the time being. And we'll secure the mana vein before they can drain or corrupt it.
Rifi leaned over the map, absorbing every detail. "Who's in the team?"
Selmak reached for a parchment beside him. "Mira, obviously. She made her intent very clear—and loudly, I might add. You'll also be joined by a few mobile Red-Cores, a Taldrin scout—exceptional in terrain like this—a defensive Spellbound from the City Lord's personal guard, one battlemage from Clan Oufetine, and two promising Green-Cores from the City Lord's forces, both on the path to becoming Spellbounds. It's a small unit, but sharp."
Rifi absorbed the list with a slow nod. "Well-rounded. I can work with that."
"Precisely," Selmak said.
He paused, watching Rifi's expression. "You'll have time to get familiar with them. The scout from Taldrin is arriving later today. The others should all be assembled by tomorrow."
Rifi looked up. "They've all been briefed? They know what they're walking into?"
"They do. Every one of them has combat experience. Most have faced worse odds than this. I wouldn't assign them otherwise."
Rifi nodded slowly. "Good."
Selmak gave a final glance toward the table. "Mira's waiting for you outside. Unless you have more questions…"
"No," Rifi said, turning toward the door. "This was all I needed."
Selmak nodded, already turning back to Tomen, whose scowl hadn't softened.
"I know you disagree," Selmak said to the old man, "but the only way forward is risk. And this time, it's calculated."
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By the time the sun hovered in a hazy golden dome above the Suburana training grounds, casting long shadows over the packed dirt rings. Since noon, Rifi and Mira had been locked in motion—training, testing, and clashing in bursts of steam and lightning. The usual din of sparring had dulled, with most of the grounds' occupants now fixated on their duel.
Mira stood across from him, her breath steady but deep, shoulders rising and falling in practiced rhythm. The gauntlets on her arms shimmered with condensation, faint veins of water mana glowing as they pulsed through specially carved channels. Orbiting her were five spheres of water—small, precise, no larger than fists—held aloft by pure control. Once a mid-range specialist, Mira had reshaped her entire approach. Now she fought up close, her fists and gauntlets delivering crushing steam-powered strikes. The orbs and her mana were no longer her primary used for ranged attacks but now they were rather extensions of her battlefield awareness—used to harass, misdirect, or cut off escape. They pressured her opponent into stepping where she wanted or gave her cover to slip away. Her stance was forward-leaning, aggressive—feet light, knees bent, ready to explode into motion. This was not the same Mira Rifi had fought beside six months ago. She'd adapted… and it showed.
Rifi rolled his shoulder and brushed a smear of dirt off his tunic. "You've improved. Last time, you would've run out of mana halfway through."
Mira smirked, breath steadying. "I adapted. Someone once told me it's not about how much mana you use, but where and how you use it."
Rifi arched an eyebrow. "Smart someone."
She didn't wait for his next quip. The hiss of steam split the air as she surged forward—pressure detonating beneath her boots, launching her like a cannonball across the sparring ring. The five water orbs floating around her tightened into a spiral formation, keeping pace with her momentum. Two darted ahead—compressed projectiles arcing toward Rifi's chest and shoulder with precise timing, designed not to damage, but to distract.
But Rifi barely shifted—lightning already crackling at his wrists. One orb flew past his head, bursting against his mana shield in a spray of scalding mist. The other curved in mid-air—redirected by Mira's precise will—but again, he was too fast. He stepped just outside its arc, eyes already locked on her.
Her boots struck dirt, steam hissing as she twisted into a right hook. Mana surged through her gauntlet, the blow accelerated with an explosive hiss. Rifi met her fist with his forearm, catching the strike and sliding a half-step backward from the force. Even restrained, her new style carried bite.
Another orb lashed in from behind, aiming for his exposed ribs.
With a flick of his hand, Rifi conjured a blade of crackling lightning. In a single movement, he sliced through the sphere, its severed mana link spilling cold water across his shoulder.
He smirked. "That's refreshing."
But Mira was already advancing, relentless. The orbs reconvened, splitting into smaller, faster fragments that zipped through the air like hunting birds. Some burst into vapor midflight, creating thick, brief clouds of mist to mask her feints. Others whirled tight around her, acting as both shield and leash—snapping out to lash at his legs and wrists when he closed in.
She fought like a tempest—chaotic, close-range, her strikes precise and disruptive. The gauntlets struck with piston-like bursts of steam, while her orbs shifted rhythm and spacing with each heartbeat. She was no longer simply trying to land a hit—she was dictating the tempo, pressing him to react.
Rifi let the smirk fade.
"Let's see how well those instincts hold up."
The air changed.
A hum like a rising storm thrummed in his wake as the lightning around him intensified—spitting arcs into the dirt, grounding across the arena like a field preparing to erupt.
Mira's eyes narrowed. Her stance shifted reflexively.
In an instant, the world blinked.
Lightning burst forward—Rifi vanished.
Her orbs rotated on instinct, intercepting the bolt that came from her left—but Rifi was already at her right.
Steam exploded around her as she burst back, just managing to bring her gauntlets up in time. Rifi's blade collided with them in a shower of sparks, the impact sending her skidding across the field.
She had no time to reset.
He was on her again—each strike a blur. She moved by reflex now, every limb operating a second ahead of her thoughts. But it wasn't her eyes that saved her—it was something deeper. A strange sensation, like threads tugging beneath her skin, warning her where danger would fall.
She moved where it told her to. And for a few exchanges, it worked.
Then it didn't.
The sensation flared again, warning of a strike to her flank. She turned, gauntlets raised—and caught nothing. Instead, pain flared across her ribs as Rifi landed a clean hit from the opposite side, his blade kissing the fabric without drawing blood.
Mira stumbled, then laughed breathlessly, adjusting her stance.
Rifi stepped back, lowering his weapon slightly. "Don't get too comfortable. A clever opponent will feed you patterns—just to break them."
"You really don't like making things easy, do you?" she panted.
"I don't like losing."
She grinned, sweat trailing from her temple. "I doubt many could do what you just did."
Mira grinned, sweat trailing down her temple. "I doubt many could do what you just did."
Rifi met her gaze, offering a faint shrug. "We cant take any chances. Meeting just one who can—once—is enough to be your last mistake."
Her smirk faded. The weight of it landed. She nodded, silent but understanding.
Rifi dipped low, lightning crackling along his limbs, the hum of mana gathering. Mira tensed, bracing to counter—
Then a voice cut through the air, dry and unhurried. "Before you fry your sparring partner," Selmak called, "perhaps I could borrow your attention for a moment."
Both combatants lowered their stances as the crowd around them stirred—legionaries pretending to stretch, to chat, to check their gear. But none of them left. Eyes lingered with the kind of focus only a rare duel could summon, thinly veiled behind casual movements and half-hearted conversation. No one wanted to admit they'd been utterly absorbed.
Selmak strode forward, calm as ever, flanked by a sharp-eyed woman with short black hair, a long odachi slung across her back, and an air of crisp readiness.
"This is Kiva of Taldrin," Selmak announced. "She'll be guiding your strike team. Knows the ridges around Gorath's Hollow very well."
Kiva gave a curt nod. "I don't like Esquiliana boots in my hills. Let's make sure they don't leave with any."
Rifi gave a half-smile as he rolled his shoulder, the last traces of lightning still fading from his skin. Mira had already started walking over, wiping the sweat from her brow with the edge of her sleeve, curiosity glinting in her eyes.
"I like your attitude already," Rifi said to Kiva, nodding toward her calm poise. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to hear more about what you can actually do. Knowing your capabilities helps me keep us alive."
Kiva tilted her head slightly, a sly smirk forming at the edge of her lips. "Showing you would be better than telling you. Besides," she said, fingers lightly resting on the hilt of her odachi, "I can learn about you at the same time."
"If your skills are on par with your character," Rifi replied, turning back toward the sparring ring, "I can already tell you'll fit right in."
Selmak, still lingering nearby, gave a soft grunt of amusement. "Just try not to take off any limbs, hmm?" he muttered more to himself than anyone else as the two combatants began stepping back into the sparring circle.
Mira folded her arms, watching them with a raised brow. "If she knocks you on your ass, I'm never letting you live it down."
The crowd of legionaries that had gathered earlier barely had time to disperse. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers again, a wave of hushed excitement. First, they'd seen an Orange-Core mage spar a Green-Core upstart. Now, they were about to witness a rare match between an Orange-Core and a Red-Core scout—an event almost never seen outside formal duels or battlefield chaos.
For a moment, the entire training yard seemed to still, all eyes drawn toward the two stepping into position.
Rifi rolled his neck with a soft crack, then extended his hand toward the center of the ring. "Whenever you're ready."
Lightning crackled to life across his skin, arcing in controlled bursts along his arms and shoulders. A low hum resonated from him as the air thickened, charged with mana. Pressure built around him, the scent of ozone trailing on the breeze.
Kiva stepped forward, unhurried and composed. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her odachi, but she didn't draw. Not yet.
A shimmer flickered around her, like heat distortion rising off sun-scorched stone. It wasn't heat, though—it was her mana gathering. Shadow mana. Not suffocating or dark in the traditional sense, but subtle, weaving into the air like threads of smoke and tricking the eye with false impressions.
"I don't like face-to-face fights," she said, voice low, cool. "So don't mind if I shift the battlefield."
Rifi offered a small nod, planting one foot forward as a precaution.
Kiva lowered her center of gravity and pulled the odachi just an inch from its scabbard. Then—without flash or sound—she released her built-up mana.
It spilled outward in a wave of living mist. Not fog, not smoke, but something between the two—semi-transparent, bending the light and softening edges. Her form distorted further, blurring at the seams until it was difficult to tell where she ended and the veil of shadow began.
Then the haze moved.
Shapes flickered—too fast, too soft to track.
And just like that, the second match began.